illithidnapped | INBOX II

Old—

[Oh, play (or sick) or not, Astarion almost nips him for that one. Longer fangs eager to challenge the measure of their lesser counterparts just to remind them of their place in the pecking order, brought on by a competitive streak that won't be quelled even in the circle of those arms.

He finds a way to silence it regardless.

(Love. Stupid, entirely obstinate love, that's how.)] Old man??

You're far too unwell to be testing me like this, you know.

[When his resolve finally breaks, it's with a kiss that only scrapes across the bow of Leto's lips— canines (lightly) asserting their part in this arrangement.]

[Gods, Astarion's sensitivity to that never fails to amuse him. Call it the inverse of his own toothless bristling whenever Astarion teases him about his youth, perhaps— though Leto plays that card far less than his mate.]

Old man, [he affirms with a dazed grin, his lip throbbing from that teasing scrape. Or perhaps he's aching from that kiss, his body aching no matter how light a touch is bestowed upon it— or maybe he's just sore, so much so that anything and everything sets him off, aches in his joints as he has not felt since Thedas thundering with every pulse of his heart.

It doesn't matter. He'll get over it. He always has before.]

Centuries older than me, is that not correct . . .? O-or is that only true when you want to score a cheap point?

[And then, as he gives up on dignity and burrows in close, snuggling as pitifully as Ataashi on a lonely day:]

Save your punishments for later, and cash in on them when I'm well.

It's not a cheap point if it works. You should know that from our dockside escapades and nights of wicked grace well enough.

[But he's already curling in closer, sinking in along the edge of Leto's side and slipping an arm underneath the sickly thing (whose tacky, vibrantly sweatsoaked back drags a clammy little line down the length of Astarion's forearm in the process) before he's folded into the crook of it properly. Able to drape across the whole of Astarion's cool body, or fold the covers up higher as he needs.

The pups take their cue soon after, crawling up across the sheets while Ataashi minds her distance at their feet, already knowing sickbed routines after so many years of it by now (not too close, never far).]

How bad is it now, my bride to be?

[Asked as he wraps two fingers around the breadth of Leto's ring finger, pinching playfully.]

[It's strange marker for how happy he is (and just how much he loves Astarion) that Leto answers the way he does: by emitting one soft, utterly pathetic groan. Whiny and dissatisfied, and yet in the same breath assuring— for he wouldn't have it in him to whine if he were truly unhappy.

Besides: having Astarion near helps. Feeling cool hands against his sweat-soaked skin is blissful— but so is the feeling of being tucked in, snuggled close against a soft chest and strong arms that will hold him just as long as he likes. And the pups help, little lumps of nestling heat that they are; he can feel their little bodies rise and fall as they breathe, unusually patient as they learn this new routine. And oh, Ataashi helps immensely, her steady bulk endlessly assuring to the elf who still thinks himself protector after all these years.

So he groans, yes, and he is a miserable thing as he shivers beneath the sheets— but he also smiles at that moniker, his heart still so full. With a little sigh, he tips his head, pressing his face against Astarion's shoulder for a long moment. Then, muffled:]

It will be easier in the morning. And the pain still does not compare to winter in Thedas.

[So there's that. Raising his head again (and alas, leaving behind a small damp spot), he adds curiously:]

I realize I may know the answer before I ask, but . . . do vampires have an equivalent to getting sick? It seems something I should know before we're wed.

[Gods, he's never going to get over saying that.]

INBOX II

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject